The Final Journey
by lickitysplit
Summary: Oneshot, postTLB, present day. It's her 80th birthday, and her family gathers to celebrate. But now her memories are starting to play tricks on her. A sequel of sorts to Beginning to Forget.


**A/N:** After I wrote "Beginning to Forget", a few people asked if I was going to continue Susan's story. I wasn't planning on it all, but then I read Neil Gaiman's short story "The Problem of Susan", and it really made me think. (If you haven't read the story and you're a fan of Gaiman's I suggest you read it, but I warn you, it's strange. If anyone has read it and would like to discuss it, message me.) This is inspired by that story, and I hope you all enjoy. Please let me know what you think.

* * *

Children, grandchildren, cousins, nieces, nephews, and all of their children poured into the house until it was bursting at the seams. Men shook hands and women kissed each other on the cheeks. Photographs and hugs were exchanged by relatives. The daughters and daughters-in-law took over the kitchen, stirring and baking and filling the tables with food and food and food. The sons and sons-in-law took turns sneaking away to watch the football game, and pretended to keep an eye on the children. 

And there were children everywhere! Older cousins talked about their upcoming weddings and babies. The teenagers hid upstairs, complaining of being stuck at a party without an internet connection, or even a computer. The littlest ones chased each other around the house and through the little garden, playing a never-ending game of tag despite being dressed in their Sunday best. The house filled with food and noise and people and gossip and stories and cheers because the team just scored.

In the middle of all the family chaos sat the guest of honor. She was an old woman—turning 80 years old today, in fact, and everyone was there to celebrate this accomplishment. Her long white hair (which has been this length since she was a child) was pulled back into a bun on her neck. Her skin, thin as paper, was wrinkled and spotted. Her frame was petite, her dress modest, and her smile warm. The only thing remarkable about this old woman, in fact, was how tall she sat. Despite being 80, she did not have the slouch of an old woman, but sat in her chair straight and tall, almost regally, her cane leaning against her chair at her side. Everyone called her the Nana, even her own children, and the neighbors who live down the street, and all of her children's and her children's children's friends.

As the guests came in, they filed past the Nana, each bending down to kiss her soft, wrinkly cheek. Some of the littlest ones were picked up so that the Nana did not have to bend over, and one or two of the babies were handed over for a few brief moments so that the Nana could hold them in her arms. You look wonderful, Nana, they said. Happy birthday, Nana, they told her. She'll outlive all of us, they laughed. They filed past her in a line, and then moved into the rest of the party, to talk to the relatives they really had come to see. And it was in the corners of the house, and behind the closed doors, that they would say that Nana is fading, that Nana can't remember things anymore, that there is something wrong with Nana. A few times, someone would say that somebody should do something, to take Nana away or put her away, but no one really felt like dealing with it. Nana's daughters pursed their lips, and said it would break her heart to leave, and Nana's sons wondered out loud who in the world is going to go through all of her stuff when she was finally gone.

Nana's house belonged to her parents, and she had lived there with her mother and father and siblings before the war. Years later, just before Nana had met Grandpa John, her mother and father and two brothers and sister were killed in a train collision, all on the same day. Her cousin and some family friends were also on the train, and the Nana was left completely, utterly alone. Meeting John saved her life, she told everyone, and with him she had started this new family, filled with daughters and sons, and then their spouses, and then the grandchildren came, followed by the great-grandchildren. Grandpa John had died ten years before, and many people thought that the Nana would not make it through. But she did, just as she made it through the last time death had struck her family, and life went on. They had all lived in this house, which Nana had inherited, and it was filled with books and photographs and jewelry and heirlooms and piles and piles of _things_. It was amazing to think that five generations of things had accumulated in such a small house.

One of the granddaughters brought her Nana a small piece of cake, set prettily on a little plate. "Here you are, Nana," she said.

Nana smiled up at her. "Thank you, Lucy dear."

"I'm not Lucy, Nana. I'm Megan." Megan looked at her, confused, and Nana looked back, just as confused. Megan's mother, Nana's youngest daughter, stepped in quickly. "Remember, Nana? This is Megan. Lucy was your sister, but she's not here." Megan made a hasty retreat while her mother sat next to the old woman. The realization dawned on Nana's face. "Oh, yes, of course that isn't Lucy. Lucy and the others were on the train."

"Yes, Nana, that's right!" the other woman said, with the excited encouragement given to a child who learns the alphabet.

One of the younger ones sat on the daughter's lap. "Nana had a sister?" she asked, her 7-year-old eyes wide.

She tried to hush her, but the Nana cut her off. "Yes, I had a sister. Her name was Lucy. And I had two brothers, Peter and Edmund. I was the second oldest." She looked closely at the little one sitting with her daughter, and thought, this one looks like Lucy too. Why was the house filled with Lucys today?

One of the older grandsons and his new wife were sitting nearby. "I didn't know that," he said. "What happened to them?"

"There was a train accident," she said.

"The same one that killed your parents?"

The Nana nodded, and listened to her daughter tell the story. Did it really all happen to her? It seemed like yesterday they had all been together in that house, and then it seemed like it was three lifetimes ago. "It was only weeks later that Nana met Grandpa John," the daughter finished.

"Don't forget to tell them about the Professor," said Nana. "And my cousin Eustace, he was on the train too. And some others as well."

"Who is the Professor?" someone asked.

The Nana smiled. "We stayed with him during the war. We visited him often when we were children. He was a great friend to us."

"Just like the Professor in your books," said her grandson. "So that's how you got your ideas for those stories! I didn't know he was real. You were evacuees, then, like the children in the stories?"

Nana nodded, but thought to herself, they weren't stories. Not really. She had lived it, along with her sister and brothers. They had stayed with the Professor, and had a wonderful summer, although she couldn't really remember it all, it was so long ago. "The rest of it was made up of course," Nana said.

Those who were listening laughed. "That certainly would be something, to find another world in your closet!" they said.

The Nana smiled, and listened to them talk around her. Of course, there was no country in the closet, but they had played many games while they were there, one of which that they had been kings and queens. They had had many adventures, running together on the grounds surrounding the Professor's estate, and defeated ogres and giants and saved many of the squirrels and birds and other creatures that lived with them. Lucy was still young enough to pretend the animals could talk, and they would play along for her. When Nana began to write her children's books, she used those times with her siblings as the foundation for the stories. It had helped her heal after the crash, and her husband, her wonderful John, had encouraged her to continue writing about them when the bags and bags filled with letters from children came pouring into their home, begging for more. She eventually had written a series about the children, and her family had lived comfortably from the small fortune she earned. John, and eventually her sons, were shrewd businessmen, and made sure that the money was well looked after.

Someone had started passing around the ancient photograph album that was one of Nana's treasures. It was filled with pictures of her parents, and Peter and Edmund and Lucy, and of their cousin and aunt and uncle, and of other relatives from years past. People compared the old, yellowing photographs to ones taken of their own children, comparing this one's nose with that one, and his chin with her chin. Nana caught a glimpse of one of the photographs, which was of her two brothers, taken shortly before they rode that doomed train. There was always a little twinge in her heart when she thought of Peter and Edmund. She remembered quarreling with them, when they were all older, but she could not remember what about, exactly. She just knew that in those final years, she was not close to her siblings anymore, at least not as much as they had been as children.

Two of her granddaughters were asking questions, and she had to focus to understand. "You were so beautiful, Nana," they said. "You must have had many men seeking your attention before you met Grandpa John." Nana smiled, remembering. There were many men who came, all looking for her hand. Peter always welcomed them into their home, and Edmund would give them the critical once-over. Most of the time, the suitors did not interest her at all: they were too old, or too young, or not in love with her, not enough anyway. There was one, tall and handsome, with dark features and a mysterious way about him. He had almost—almost—swept her right off of her feet, but she realized just in time that he was cold hearted and cruel.

"Nana!" the girls cried. "You're telling us one of your stories! We want to know what really happened."

"But that did happen," she protested, but too late. Her daughter was shooing the younger ones away, saying that Nana was getting tired and confused. She did not think that she was confused at all; she could picture the young man in her mind, and the blazing red necklace he had given her. What was his name? Something foreign, Nana was sure of it. Now she was being helped to stand, and escorted to her bedroom, and walked to the bed. "Have a rest now, Nana," someone said. How in the world could there be so many relatives? When the train had crashed, she had thought, I have no family now.

"No, I don't want to rest," she said. "I want to go riding. I haven't gone riding in years." Ages, to be truthful.

They laughed. "Nana, you can't ride a horse! Don't be so silly!"

"It's my birthday, isn't it? I want to go riding! I once owned the most beautiful horse—it was white as snow, and sweet, and loved to eat lumps of sugar from my hand. We would go riding all over the forest, and oh! She had the most beautiful mane; I could just brush it for hours." But she knew she wouldn't be riding today, because now she was in bed. The younger ones laughed at the thought of their old Nana riding a shining white mare, and the older ones gave each other worried glances and bit their lower lips. "Give Nana some rest now," they said, and she was finally alone.

She lay back against the pillows, glad to be away from all of the noise. She knew her children thought that she was losing her memory and that her mind was starting to go. But Nana actually felt strong, and some things were very clear in her mind. The only thing that she had noticed as she got older was that time began to act funny, and play tricks on her. She would start looking through her album after breakfast, and then when she was finished, it would be almost time for tea. She would call her daughter and ask when she was coming home, only to find out that her daughter had moved out years ago. She also caught herself calling for her mother, or her sister, or for one of the boys before remembering that they hadn't answered her back in nearly sixty years.

The Nana had also, seemingly out of nowhere, felt the desire to write again. She had not published a book in thirty years, or had written anything in nearly as long. But one day, a few weeks back (or was it a few months ago? Nana couldn't remember for sure) she had found her old, heavy typewriter in the closet and had an idea. Those children, the ones she had become famous for and who had provided a life for her and her family, should have a real ending. She had asked the neighbor on her left, a stocky young man who would clear the snow from her steps in winter, if he could buy her a ream of paper. He returned later that day with several packages of clean white paper, and asked why she needed it. "I have one more book to write," she answered, and let him show himself out. She rolled the paper into the typewriter and began clicking away, her fingers aching after just a few minutes, but pushing on nonetheless. Many people had asked her if the children in her stories were based on her and her own family, and she always said yes, although she never quite connected them in a way that she thought she should. It was because they had a sad ending, and Nana now felt that this should be changed. After all, she had had a happy ending herself, and it had been so very long since her family had died, she could not feel the pain anymore, but just remember that she had felt it once.

Nana thought of all of these things as her eyes closed. She thought about her husband, long gone, and tried to imagine he was lying next to her. She thought about her sweet younger sister, with whom she had endless days of laughter and fun and love. She thought about her two strong brothers, who were so alike and so different, and had established a high standard inside her against which she measured all other men. She thought about her mother and father, who were a distant memory, faded but still there. She thought about her children, and grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, who all surrounded her in this house of memories, and wondered if they'd ever really understand where they all came from.

Three weeks later, the family was gathered again in Nana's house. Again there was food, and children chasing each other, and cousins whispering with heads bent together. But there was no laughter, or shouting, or football game to watch. It was solemn, and sad, and when the ancient photograph album was passed around this time, it was accompanied by tears and sad hugs.

After everyone had gone home, Nana's children had stayed to clean up, and start going through her things. Her oldest son opened the door to a forgotten room off of the side of the house, which had been his parents' study. Inside, there were books and papers covered in dust, bookshelves with crumbling books, and letters both opened and unopened everywhere. In the middle of the mess were a typewriter and a pile of neatly stacked papers in a cleared space on a desk. It was a strange sight, and he walked over to look at the stack. A title page sat on the very top.

_**The Final Journey**_

_by Susan Pevensie_

He frowned and started to flip through the pages. "Come and look at this!" he called out, and his siblings came into the room. Over the next few hours, they read the book together, passing pages along like an assembly line. When they had finished, they just looked at each other. "When did she write this?" one said aloud, but none of them could answer. Nana's youngest son was finishing the final page. " 'She felt the warm breeze on her face, and ran her hand along the tops of the tall grass. Then she began to run, faster than she had ever run before, and caught up with the others. They spent their days together, and had many more adventures, and all were happy until the end of time.' " He looked up with tears in his eyes. "That's how it ends." They were silent after that.

They did not have to speak; they all knew it was truth.


End file.
